*
The sky was just starting to change; the sun nowhere to be seen, the moon in hiding, but the entire world seemed to glow from a kind of internal light. The white house across the road began to get brighter, defining itself starkly against the hedges that crouched against the sidewalk. Xander was used to this time of day – it was his favorite.
He'd long since given up on black and white. They had seemed to be so solid, indestructible – right and wrong, up and down, good and evil, love, hope, death. And then down had become up, good things went bad, people you loved died and then didn't, and somehow? Everyone else had adjusted, or expected it, or something. And he been left behind somewhere, lost in the shuffle. Because when everything did go to hell, it seemed like he was the only one who felt like he needed to sit down, put his head in his hands, and wait for the world to stop spinning.
Of course, the world never stops spinning.
Xander looked down at the basket between his feet, then sighed and leaned back against the porch swing. It swayed a little, with a familiar, comforting creaking sound. It had become a ritual of sorts, sitting on this swing at this hour. Usually when he was bruised or spattered, which explained the lack of cushions. He'd veneered the wooden slats as well, to make them easily washable. A porch swing that you could rinse blood off of easily. Which, he knew, was a thought that should be wrong. But in his world, it was just wise. He felt a headache coming on.
No, this time of day was perfect. There weren't any shadows, and no sharp edges. The light came from all around, as though it was terrestrial and not solar after all, sneaking through gardens and wrapping homes with an insulating glow that seemed safe and promising. What promise, he didn't know – but something good, something helpful. Something hopeful.
He sighed and rocked, letting the peace of the moment soothe him. He didn't believe that things always turned out as they were intended. But this morning, of all mornings, he needed to remember that the world had its moments when it was beautiful and gentle and calm.
Then he heard her coming.
Immediately, Xander thrust himself out of the swing, making it screech angrily against its chains. Her speed was incredible; in the amount of time it took her to get to the mailbox, he'd only managed to get to the top of the steps. Instinctively, he held his arms up and out, hands flat towards her.
"Buffy, it's fine!" The first shout might not have registered, he realized, considering the frantic look on her face as she took in the state of the house's exterior. Xander gamely stepped directly between the oncoming Slayer and the door before trying again.
"Dawn's fine, everything's fine, they didn't get in!" The combination of Xander's deliberate obstruction and the mention of her sister's name brought Buffy up short. She grabbed his arms desperately, to either throw him aside or hold him still, he didn't know. But the sharp shocks of pain that arrowed through his shoulders nearly blinded him, and he let out a loud groan as he felt muscle and sinew crushing against bone. She was going to break his arms, he realized – and she had lost control. His vision went black.
"Buffy!" At once, the pain was abruptly gone; Xander cleared the stars from his eyes just in time to see Spike beside him, facing the Slayer, the girl's wrists imprisoned in his hands. Spike's expression was shocked, or reprimanding, maybe – but whatever unspoken communication passed between the two, Buffy calmed. And then she shook off his grasp, and Spike stepped back again. Watchful, but not interfering.
"Are you okay? I'm sorry..." she started, but Xander could see her eyes flicking towards the door as she spoke. He shook his arms out quickly, feeling the familiar dull ache of massive bruising.
"Don't worry about it, Buff – and Dawn's fine, she was all safe and locked in when we got here." He saw Spike's head tilt slightly at the plural, but he continued. "She says there were noises outside, she got freaked out, we were on the phone the entire way here. She's fine. But," he quickly added as Buffy tried to sidestep, "there's more."
"You said she wasn't hurt," Buffy began warningly.
"And she's not." Xander hesitated before continuing. "But there's more going on here." Suddenly, he jolted. "Wait – why are you here? Like this? How did you even know something was happening?"
Buffy's face hardened. "In a roundabout way, Kane. That guy who went after Spike."
"Riiiiight...." Xander looked to Spike, but the vampire's focus had drifted. His expression was suspicious as he approached the swing, though he was trying not to be conspicuous. Briefly, he leaned towards the basket, then rocked backwards again with his eyes closed. He spoke quietly, his voice rough.
"And this?" He gestured at the ground, his eyes locked on Xander's.
"That's what I needed to tell you about," Xander explained, turning to Buffy. "It's..."
"It's something we can handle, for now," Spike interrupted. His posture had changed; far from inconspicuous, he was now ramrod-straight, almost magnetic to the eye. Xander felt resentment building in his gut, tried to ignore it. The other man gave him an inscrutable look before continuing. "You and I can talk about this situation, Buffy can check on her sister for a bit. Works out all round?"
Xander nodded and, chameleonlike, Spike suddenly relaxed again. As though he hadn't a care in the world. Strange, strange man.
"Are you sure?" Buffy's tone was hopeful, and Xander reluctantly realized that Spike's solution was a good one. She wouldn't be rational until she'd talked to Dawn, seen her intact.
Her eyes shifted to Spike, who shrugged. The smile she turned on Xander was brilliant. "Thank you," she whispered, and disappeared into the house.
Spike coughed, a little awkwardly. "Your arms all right?"
"I'm used to it."
"Fair enough."
The basket lay half-under the swing. From this distance, Xander supposed, it could almost look like someone was going on a picnic. The edge of a front-yard flag was folded coyly over the top, and it flapped a little in the breeze. It didn't look out of the ordinary at all.
"You could smell it, couldn't you?" That particular talent of Spike's still made Xander a little queasy.
Spike just nodded. "You look inside yet?"
"Yeah." Xander walked over to the basket and picked it up by the handle. It had no heft at all; the contents barely shifted inside. He placed it on the banister and swallowed. "There's going to me more of this, somewhere."
"Right," Spike replied absently, and peeled back the top layer of fabric.
At first, there seemed to be no rhyme or reason to the pieces within the basket. A huge hank of hair, long and brown. It might have been smooth once, but now, matted with gore and dirt, it hung in limp tangles from what could only be an enormous segment of scalp. The strands trailed messily across two off-white lumps; Xander waited as Spike prodded at one, and winced when it rolled over, revealing a perfect, beautiful, green-blue eye.
"Ruined the other one," Spike commented absently as he moved to the other orb, which had been badly damaged and was oozing. But just in case, he turned it over. "Matching color – same owner, I'd wager."
"Dawn's color," Xander supplied. Spike nodded grimly, and Xander continued. "The hair's the same too, and the other thing..."
"Lips," Spike said, "Mouth. Whatever." It resembled a thick ring of discarded rubber, distended and obscene; it probably shifted when the basket was moved, he thought, and he reached in to rearrange it.
Xander couldn't tell if he was fascinated or repulsed by the way Spike so casually handled the pieces of dead flesh. Strictly speaking, he admitted, Spike kind of WAS dead flesh – but so calmly moving the mutilated pieces into a semblance of life? He shuddered and looked away.
"Looks like her too," Spike finally muttered, having finished his arrangement. Against his better judgment, Xander looked – sure enough, the lips were uncannily reminiscent of Dawns' full mouth. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Spike's bloodied fingers brush across the legs of his jeans. Wiping the dead blood away like dirt.
"So," Spike started. "We agree that they're all Dawn-like, in some way or other."
"There's this, too." Xander held out a scrap of paper, bearing one neat word.
"'Almost'," Spike read. He tucked the note into the wicker of the basket and pressed his lips together. "Right." He paused, scanning the yard, then turned back to Xander. "And the rest are around the side."
"I only got a quick look before you got here, but yeah." Xander gestured towards the sun, just peeking over the horizon. "I'd show you, but..."
"That side of the house has shade 'til around ten," Spike said absently, his eyes still on the basket. He took a deep breath, and Xander couldn't tell if it had to do with what he had seen. "We'll have to take care of it before the neighborhood wakes – someone'll have to," he amended, glancing at Xander, who nodded curtly.
Suddenly, Spike changed topics. "You checked Dawn, though – she's fine?"
"Freaked out, heard a lot of noises – but she's fine."
"She's a strong girl," Spike stated, in a way Xander thought almost self-satisfactory. "I'll take a look, come back with her sister, all right?"
"Put this away first." Xander handed over the basket, discreetly covering the contents once again.
"What, you want me to just leave it on a table?" Spike asked incredulously.
"No," Xander answered flatly. "Put it in the fridge in the basement, where we keep all the spare body parts."
Spike looked as though he might sneer, but Xander's face stayed serious, and his smirk gradually died away. "As the man says, then – fridge in the basement."
"Thanks."
*
Willow's subconscious registered the footsteps first. It took her a few confusing seconds to sort out the twinge in her stomach, the way her entire body tightened and her head began to buzz, and she nearly called out for Xander. But then the sound reached her ears – the oddly light steps of someone navigating the Summers house expertly, but so, so quickly. Almost as though the feet didn't need to touch the ground.
"Buffy?" Dawn spoke before she was properly awake, the tempo of the walk having roused her from her exhausted state. She pushed her hair out of her face, blinking madly. "Where's Buffy?"
But Willow couldn't respond. Her throat had seized up. Buffy had reached the door now, and Willow responded viscerally to the prospect of only one thin wooden door between herself and the Slayer. Swiftly, she stood up, almost dumping Dawn onto the floor in her haste to get away.
She was halfway across the basement before she realized what she was doing. And then she stopped, stock still, as though nailed to the floor. Instinct warred with sense, and as the door opened at the top of the basement stairs, Willow's entire body trembled.
She could feel it: the panic prompted helplessness, which was followed by anger, and then determination, a burning, bubbling force that lay dormant in every other situation. Sometimes she thought it was magical residue in her blood, a physical taint that she would carry with her for the rest of her life. A slick and slimy feeling that boiled in her veins and made strange languages lurk on her tongue, made her hands itch to form symbols in the air. Sometimes she would catch a whiff of spice or herb, and how bitter it was that she used to be proud of this talent, this skill! And now all she could do was hold on, try not to let the terror and panic override her.
Also, she thought wryly, she'd rather not faint in front of Buffy.
Willow was straining so hard for control that she almost missed Buffy's entrance. She was nearly unrecognizable – her hair, her stance, even some of the clothes. But more than that, the way she interacted with Dawn... Willow was amazed. No histrionics, no fussing; Buffy just held her sister close, but not too tight, and smiled. They both did, while speaking low and quickly, flashes of humor and feeling exchanged comfortably. Buffy wasn't treating Dawn as a child anymore, it seemed, and the sisters obviously thrived on their new relationship. And then Dawn's glance darted straight at Willow, and her blood shocked cold as she waited for Buffy to turn on her.
"Willow." Buffy's voice wasn't warm by any stretch; but it was civil, and Willow could see Dawn's fingers tighten encouragingly in Buffy's grasp.
"Will stayed on the phone with me for almost an hour, Buffy." Dawn spoke lightly, smiling widely at Willow over her sister's shoulder. "She and Xander came flying down, as soon as I called, and Willow let me talk to her. She told stories too, really distracted me. The entire time. It really calmed me down."
"What about?" Buffy's face was impassive, which could mean a couple of things. One, she could've become a better actress in the past two years and could now stop her emotions from coming across in her expression. Or secondly? She could actually have no feelings whatsoever towards Willow.
Willow wasn't sure which option she preferred, and quickly distracted herself by answering the question. "England stuff? Um, slang, customs, the time I went to Hastings when it was being invaded by reenactors...." She faltered and looked to Dawn. "Did I tell you that Big Ben means the bell, not the tower?"
At that, the corner of Buffy's mouth twitched a little, and Willow tentatively tried to return the smile. No such luck – by the time she got up the courage, Buffy's face had fallen again, and Willow was left grinning at nothing, like a fool. The silence was heavy in the air, and Willow's heart began to pick up tempo again.
"If you're going to stay, you can sleep in Dawn's room," Buffy suddenly announced, then looked surprised at her own voice. Dawn, on the other hand, let out a laugh.
"Oh, that's nice! Given anything else away while I was gone?" She elbowed Buffy and the older girl looked back at her with a raised eyebrow.
"No! I'll get a place in town, or..." Willow stuttered to a halt.
"Yes, with our myriad hotels and boardinghouses here in Sunnydale," Buffy finished dryly. Willow flushed.
"Oh, stop it, both of you - she's only teasing," Dawn sighed as she loped over to Willow, casting a deliberate arm around her shoulders. "Anyhow, I always sleep in Buffy's room my first night home, it's kind of like a tradition. Besides, have you seen the size of the BED in there?!? It's like four of my dorm beds in one!"
Willow let herself be guided upstairs by Dawn, listening to the girl chatter steadily all the while. As she passed Buffy, she allowed herself a brief look into the other woman's face; her expression was appraising, perhaps a little suspicious... but open, at least. If she had ever let herself dream about a second chance in Sunnydale, this was its realization. She took a breath, smiled, and began to climb out of the shadows.
"Was just coming to get you."
Buffy was paused in the hallway, her head tilted to look up the stairs where she'd left her sister with a witch. Spike's voice brought her out of her daze quickly, though; she still wasn't used to his way of materializing out of nowhere. How long ago had it been since there were all these people here, she thought to herself. And did she really want them all back in her life now?
But these were questions to be dealt with later. She rubbed at her eyes vigorously and pushed away from the banister. "What you got?"
"Basket of goodies that are better heard of, not seen," Spike replied as they headed for the porch. "And then, a bit of a bigger problem."
"Meaning..." Buffy glared. She hated when he got theatrical this early in the morning.
But Spike didn't rise to her jibe, instead looking unusually uncomfortable. Xander jumped into the breach instead.
"Did you show her the basket?"
Spike shook his head. "She was headed off with Dawn when I went in, didn't think it appropriate. It's stowed out of sight."
"Yeah, okay. The basket," Xander explained, "had human parts in it...."
"Eugh!"
"I know. But - and here's where it gets really creepy – they seem to be some kind of FrankenDawn gag, or something."
Buffy stared at him. "Come again?"
"They were Dawn-like bits of girls," Spike cut Xander off before he could start. "A long, brown-haired scalp trophy; pair of eyes in Dawn's colour; and then a set of lips, all quite professionally done." Buffy recoiled a little at the clinical tone of his voice, but he didn't react.
"And now, there's something bloody in your side yard," he finished, looking to Xander. "Did you look again?"
"Yes." And finally, Buffy really looked at Xander. He was pale, ashy under his builder's tan, and his hand shook as he took her arm. Together, they walked around the corner of the house, Spike skirting by in the thick shadows under the eaves. Whatever lay in wait, it had Xander almost physically ill. And Spike was getting more wired with every step.
And then they were there. Up against the side of the house, between one of the basement windows and the garden hose, lay three bodies. They were propped up in casual poses, as if they were just three highschoolers playing hooky on a sunny day. Bone from a skull was clearly visible on one girl; another wept blood and fluid from empty sockets, while the last's ruined mouth... Buffy unconsciously clapped both hands over her own lips as she took in the ragged tears where skin had been roughly ripped away.
In their GAP sweaters and carefully chosen jeans, their color-coordinated scarves wrapped jauntily around their necks or around the straps of their messenger bags, they lolled against the siding and offered their hosts rictus -grins.
TBC
